The Death of Peter Peel
by Gale Force
Summary: The first in a series of stories with the umbrella title: The Chronicles of Emma Peel. Emma's adventures after she leaves John Steed and the department. The story is complete in itself.


The Chronicles of Emma Peel

The Death of Peter Peel

**Chapter 1 - Emma Peel**

There's an old saying that when one falls off a horse, one should get right back on again. Emma Peel wasn't sure if that same type of adage applied to pilots and plane crashes, but it probably did. More was the pity.

Four years ago her husband, test pilot Peter Peel, had - she had thought - died in a plane crash in the Amazon jungle. But it had turned out he had survived the crash…and four years living in the depths of that jungle with the tribe that had rescued him and nursed him back to health. He had returned to England - and to her - six months ago.

He had resumed his job as a test pilot, this time for a company vying for a military contract from the government - British TechAir. He'd been flying their experimental Mark IV Dart. He'd crashed it…and this time, he'd definitely died. She'd sobbed over his broken body resting in the coffin…the shock of losing him all the greater since she had just lost him for the second time.

Worst of all…TechAir was saying it had been _his _fault. The machine had gone into a spin and instead of handling it properly - _they _said - he'd panicked and tried to compensate in entirely the wrong way.

Emma didn't believe it. Peter was too skilled a pilot, even with a brand new aircraft with new controls to learn, to have attempted to compensate in the wrong way…let alone been _panicked _into doing so.

Now the funeral was over, and she sat, gathered in her widow's weeds, at the head of his grave, wondering what she should do.

The other mourners had left long ago, after expressing their sympathy and telling her to call if she needed them. So heart-warming to have so many friends - both of her husband's in the RAF, at TechAir, and in their private lives. Her best friend, other than her husband, John Steed, had not attended the funeral. She'd received a private communiqué from the new head of the department for which he worked, explaining that he was on a case that had taken him, and his new partner Tara King, to France. He probably had not even seen the news.

That was all right. Emma knew she'd hear from Steed in due course.

_What should I do, Peter_?

He had no family left to care that his death had been branded pilot error. Everyone who knew him - from their private friends to his fellow pilots - had seemed to accept the verdict without compunction. Perhaps they, even more than she, accepted the fact that that was the way the major companies worked…especially when they were trying to get contracts worth billions of pounds from the RAF.

Emma sighed. If it had _not _been pilot error…if there was a flaw in the plane…surely TechAir would fix it even if they didn't acknowledge it existed.

Should she trust in TechAir to be that sensible, or should she take some kind of action? She'd hate to see another test pilot die…another test pilot's wife widowed…because she had taken no action.

But what could she do? She'd have to investigate TechAir…but she couldn't - everyone there knew her. She could call on Steed to do some investigative work…but he was incommunicado for the foreseeable future. And besides…had she the right to ask him to involve himself in her personal problems…when the fate of the world could be depending on his presence at a moment's notice?

No…not Steed. But she did know someone from "the old days" who could help. Emma nodded to herself.

Rising, she said her final goodbyes to Peter, then turned and walked from the cemetery..a woman on a mission.

**Chapter 2 - Cathy Gale **

In one of those strange quirks of fate, at the same time that Emma Peel stood in a cemetery in England mulling over the adage about getting back on the horse, Cathy Gale was thinking the exact same thing as she sat in the cockpit of an American airplane, heading towards the drop point where her passengers - twenty American parachutists called smokejumpers - were due to jump out to help fight a forest fire raging in the Californian mountains.

In her case, it had taken three years, and she found herself with clammy hands and a dry mouth wishing that she'd kicked that old horse instead of getting back on it.

Three years ago, in her adventure with John Steed that a department scribe had rather poetically entitled "Lobster Quadrille," she had been trapped inside a building engulfed in flames and almost burned to death.

She'd rather lost her nerve after that experience. She'd never wanted to die, of course, in all her adventures with Steed, but there was something rather comforting in the thought that if she'd gotten shot by a villain, it would have been quick, clean and relatively painless. But when she'd come sooo close to being burned to death… one of the most agonizing deaths imaginable…her nerve had gone, there was no denying. For several months afterwards she'd had nightmares about it…and couldn't even stand to look at an open flame.

Then, while on a yearlong tour of the United States of America, visiting and researching various Indian tribes, she'd learned of the smokejumper program, in which volunteers fought fires. Volunteers who would jump out of planes and actually fight the fires, and other volunteers who were pilots to fly the planes and helicopters that would dispatch the smokejumpers to their target.

"Get back on the horse," she had told herself, and volunteered for the program. She'd completed a sweep from the east coast to the west coast of the country, visiting the many reservations scattered in various states, and was spending a last month in California before returning to England.

And she'd been on-call this month for forest fire duty, and there was a forest fire, and she was currently headed toward that fire. And she was beginning to panic. Even at 20,000 feet, safe in a plane, she could feel an anxiety attack coming on. Turn back. A gauge has gone haywire…water I the fuel…you'll think of an excuse…

She breathed deeply, telling herself coldly and in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought of her ridiculous cowardice. And although that tiny but very insistent interior voice was screaming at her to turn around and head back, she kept the plane on course.

In front of her, smoke rose like a great black wall. Her copilot crinkled the map on his lap… they were at the first drop point. He signaled the men in the cargo bay, and the first "stick" of ten jumpers rose to their feet, clicked their parachute rings to a static line, and headed for the doors, where the jumpmaster stood ready to launch them into space.

The stick jumped out of the plane, one after the other after the other, and soon 10 parachutes were dropping down to the ground far below. Cathy switched her heading to the next drop point.

She was breathing easier now. That wall of blackness was stationary in front of them…but it was far away, as were those red and gold bursts of color at its base…. Far away…far away…

The second stick departed the plane, and Cathy turned the wheel and headed back toward the airport.

As mile after mile disappeared, she began to breathe easier, and warmth returned to her hands.

She'd done it…faced the fear and done it anyway, as the saying went. Pride, no not pride but relief, flowed through her. She knew at last that she was herself again.

When she got back to the flat she was renting…or her "apartment" as they called it here in the States, it was to find a message on her answering machine from Emma Peel.

"Mrs. Gale…you're needed."

**Chapter Three: The Return**

A week later, Cathy was flying back - via commercial airliner - to London, having cut her research trip short by three weeks to answer Emma's call for assistant.

Cathy had met Emma Peel a little less than three years ago, when Emma had first became the partner of John Steed. (Recounted in The Transformed Man).

The two shared many of the same interests, and had become fast friends, although their schedules usually allowed them to meet only twice a month or so. Sometimes they met for a fencing match, sometimes to stroll around a new exhibit at one of London's many museums, and occasionally just to have tea.

They each had found it such a joy to have a fellow intellectual woman to talk to - too many of their other female friends had children and did nothing but talk about the little darlings to the exclusion of all else…or didn't have children and whined about how much they wished they did…or had grandchildren and talked about them. To have a fellow woman with whom to discuss mathematics, or anthropology, or the article they were writing for this or that particular journal, or the peccadilloes of one John Steed, or any one of a numberless set of topics -- it was heaven.

They had last met just before Cathy had set out on her American adventure, and since then Emma had been the recipient of a post card from each state Cathy had visited, as well as the occasional letter, and once in a while a phone call.

The news of Peter Peel's death had not made it across the pond, however, and Cathy had expressed shocked sympathy when Emma had told her the news.

Then Emma had explained what she wanted. Cathy had agreed immediately to help, and they'd discussed how best to go about their investigation.

"Let's give them a couple more weeks to think they've gotten away with it," suggested Cathy. "If there is something they've gotten away with, of course. Then, I'll come along as a journalist and do some interviewing…I've contributed articles to Flight and Flyers in the past and know the publisher well…he'll be delighted to ring up TechAir for me and arrange for an interview…"

Emma had agreed.

Cathy spent the next week in California, packing up all her notes, writings and acquisitions for shipment back to England, and explaining to various people whom she'd been scheduled to speak with that urgent matters called her home, but that she hoped to return in several more months.

Although she would not mount her assault on TechAir for another week, or even two, she wanted to be back in London to help Emma do some research into the company, and see if there were any overt signs that they might be in trouble, or that their prototype plane might be flawed.

Oh, for the future, Cathy mused to herself as she read through Popular Science magazine. Computers were rapidly coming into use around the world, and there were many predictions for them. One day, every home would have a computer terminal linking it to a central "brain," and she'd be able to talk to people like Emma face to face, as in those old science fiction movies. And she'd be able to do all her research at every library in the world, while comfortably ensconced in her own home drinking tea.

Those would be the days…

Her plane arrived at Gatwick on time. It had been an 8 hour flight…she'd started the night before, flying from California to New York and spending the night at the Airport Hotel, and leaving early this afternoon for London. So she was tired and sick to death of being on a plane when she finally arrived and made it through customs with her overnight bag. (She had shipped everything else together via Air Cargo.)

She'd had many a friend who could have met her at the airport and delivered her to her flat, but Emma had offered and she'd accepted.

Emma, tall and slender, clad in slacks and shirt, was waiting for her at the baggage claim. (Cathy had set that as their meeting point, even though she had no checked luggage.) The two women embraced, and then headed out of the airport toward Emma's car.

"You look exhausted," said Emma.

"I am. All I want to do is go home, take a nice long bath, and then sleep for 24 hours."

"How was the flight?"

"Oh, fine. Took off on time and, as you see, landed on time. No squalling babies or toddlers making nuisances of themselves, for which I was duly grateful. I got a lot of reading done."

"I hope your flat is as you left it."

"Oh, no worries there. As you know, I leant it to a professor from London University - quite trustworthy. She was quite annoyed I was coming home a few weeks early – " Cathy grinned – "but I'm sure I'll find the fridge fully stocked and everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion."

They arrived at Cathy's block of flats…luxury flats just off Hyde Park. Cathy put her hand on Emma's for a second and squeezed. "I'll phone you tomorrow, and we'll get together."

"Yes. Have a good sleep."

Cathy got out, waved, and trotted up the stairs to the portico. Emma shifted gears and set her car out into the traffic.

**Chapter Four: Tea**

"Ah, good old English tea," Cathy Gale said with pleasure, lifting her cup and enjoying the aroma.

"Didn't you have tea in America?" Emma queried, selecting a crème-filled bun from the tray in front of them and taking a bite.

"When in Rome…" said Cathy. "I ate only American food. Or Chinese, or Mexican. Why is it they don't have any British food restaurants there, I wonder. Steak-and-kidney pie, cucumber sandwiches, prawn salads, Yorkshire pudding…they'd go down a treat."

"But if they did that, Americans wouldn't have any reason to come here to sample our High Teas," returned Emma with a grin.

They were having tea in the Charing Cross Hotel, a popular meeting place for everyone from the country, coming to London to catch a play in the West End.

After finishing their tea, they dropped the desultory talk and got down to business.

"I've collected all the data I could," Emma said, lifting files from her briefcase and placing them at Cathy's elbow. "Which is basically just their financials. They're a strong company - not getting this contract from the RAF will hurt them, but it won't be a mortal blow. They've got two other competitors, Autolycus Systems and Starwind. By that I mean of course those are the three leads. Each of those companies has their subsidiaries, who work on their own bits of the aircraft concerned."

Cathy nodded. "TechAir's plane is the Mark IV Dart. What are the other planes called?"

"Autolycus is working on something they call the Interceptor. Starwind, the Starflyer."

"And what about their financials? Any reason why they'd want to sabotage the Dart?"

Emma nudged the folders. "They're in there as well. And I don't see it. At the moment all three are profitable companies. Each will certainly be disappointed if they don't get the contract…but in the normal way of things I can't see them performing any sabotage."

Cathy nodded again. "Well, I'll go over the information again, just to see if anything strikes my eye. I've got an appointment with James Charters…he's the publisher of Flight and Flyers… in two days time, so I'll set the interview in motion then."

Emma selected another bun, and set to work on it.

**Chapter Five: The Interview**

Cathy Gale liked leather. She liked the way it felt against her skin, she liked the way she looked in it. It was she who had suggested that Emma adopt leather as her "fighting outfit," whenever a mission beckoned, and Emma had done so, but she hadn't cared for it in the same way - too hot - and had instead had designed what she liked to call her "Emma Peelers," close-fitting jumpsuits that allowed her to run and jump, and still accentuate the curves.

As Cathy walked into the office of the President of TechAir, she wore leather slacks, a frilly white shirt, and a leather jacket. Over one arm was her purse - briefcase-sized to hold her steno-pad and various reference materials. Her high-heeled boots put her eyes at the same level as Robert Marsden's, the president.

He shook her hand firmly, then gestured her to take a seat. "Tea, please, Miss Baldwin," he told his secretary, before seating himself at his large desk in front of her.

Cathy put her briefcase on the floor beside her and withdrew her steno pad. As she straightened up again Miss Baldwin arrived with the tea things on a tray. She poured, and Cathy accepted a cup with her other hand. Her chair was close enough to the desk so that she could rest her cup on it when necessary.

"You're quite beautiful to be a reporter," was Marsden's opening gambit.

Cathy had long ago become bored with that opening gambit. Almost as bored as with the glasses that were supposed to provide an air of scholarliness.

However, she said with a quick smile, "Thank you. I'm a journalist, however, not a reporter. Reporters do quick, bare-bones pieces for the newspapers, journalists do in-depth reporting for magazines. In this case, Flight and Flyers."

"Yes, of course," said Marsden with a smile. He was a middle-aged man, going bald, but handsome for all that, with regular features, a powerful build, and a trim waistline.

"I confess when Charters called to set up this interview, and told me you'd be interviewing me, I was a bit surprised you were a woman. But then he gave me your credentials. Your flying hours are impressive."

Cathy nodded. "Women have been flying planes since months after the Wright brothers first made it into the air. I was one of the ATAs - that'd be Air Transport Auxiliary - ferrying planes during the last war. After the war ended I took every chance I could to fly planes. And of course in Kenya, where I lived for a time, it was a necessity."

Marsden nodded. "I do beg your pardon for seeming to minimalize you," he said candidly, much to Cathy's surprise. "Of course I've heard of the ATAs, not to mention the American WASP."

Cathy smiled. "Well then, let's get started. Your prototype, the Dart, is vying against two other competitors for the RAF contract for a new fighter plane. How long has the Dart been on the drawing board?"

The interview descended into technicalities. Marsden throughout the technicalities and the jargon unhesitatingly, and Cathy took notes quickly, easily, not hesitating to occasionally ask clarification on an unfamiliar term. With her grounding in aviation, she was quickly able to understand when Marsden elaborated.

Finally, Cathy said, "You've recently had a setback. The Dart crashed a few weeks ago and the pilot was killed."

Marsden nodded, face grim. "A terrible tragedy. One of our best test pilots, Peter Peel, was killed."

"I've heard of him," Cathy said. "Hadn't he returned from the Amazon…"

"Yes…just four months before this happened. That would make an interesting story. You really should speak to his wif…. I mean widow, Emma Peel. Not now, of course, this having so recently happened, but in a few months. I'm sure she'd appreciate a profile of him in your magazine, and he deserves it, too."

Cathy kept her face impassive. Marsden certainly was praising Peel to the skies. Yet hadn't Peel been blamed for the crash? Skirt that, for now…

"How far behind has this set the program?"

"Oh, just a month or so. Of course there had to be an investigation…but the Dart was given a clean bill of health. Indeed, there's another test flight two days from now."

"There are…how many Darts left?"

"Two."

Cathy knew full well that there never was just one prototype of a plane built - there were always three. Just in case a crash happened.

Marsden had opened the door. Cathy stepped in. "You say the crash was not caused by a design flaw. Then the pilot…?"

Marsden steepled his fingers under his chin. "Peel was a great pilot," he re-iterated. "But he'd been out of flying for four years. There are new tools in the Dart, that he was unfamiliar with. He'd done well in the trainer, of course, very well, as a matter of fact. But when it was actually time to take it up…" he shrugged. "I blame myself. We should have given him a few more months. But Rogers was out sick, and we really needed to make that test flight…"

Cathy blinked. "I'm not with you," she said. "Who is Rogers?"

"Well, we have three test pilots. Had, I mean. Rogers, Peel and Winstanley. Rogers fell ill that day, and Winstanley was up north, so we tapped Peter to make the flight."

"And he crashed the plane."

"Yes."

"And there was an internal review of the crash?"

"Oh…any crash that results in death and the investigation is taken out of our hands. No, Perry Robertson of the RAF conducted it. He's our representative from the RAF. He's been working with us directly on this project, and he conducted an independent investigation. And he came to the conclusion we knew he would - that there was nothing wrong with the Dart."

Cathy nodded. "Pilot error?"

Marsden grimaced, but nodded. "He'd checked out on the trainer - he was "good to go," as the Americans say, but when you've got to make a split second decision…he just made the wrong one."

Cathy passed on to other things…she did not want to make too much out of Peel's death…if Marsden had anything to do with…but she was inclined to believe he hadn't. He seemed very honest, very open and above board.

She'd like to read that report…but it was doubtless classified.

She looked casually around Marsden's office. There had been a row of filing cabinets out in his secretary's office, but here…only one. Beside his desk…with no lock on it.

As Cathy had entered the grounds of TechAir, she had made careful notes of the external security, and once in this administrative building, careful notes of the floor plan.

After finishing her interview with Marsden, he saw her to the door of his office, and shook her hand. "Miss Baldwin will see you to your car," he said, and then disappeared back into his office.

Miss Baldwin was on the phone. "Loo," Cathy mouthed at her. Miss Baldwin nodded, and gestured in such a way as to indicate that Cathy should go out of her office, turn right, and then right again.

She was alone in the corridor. With a decisive step, Cathy followed Miss Baldwin's gestured instructions. She found the loo, and indeed, was pleasantly surprised to see that it was actually marked, with a woman's silhouette on the door. There must be more female secretaries here than Miss Baldwin, then..

And how nice. It was quite close to the front door of the building.

She went in. There were three stalls, with doors extending from top to bottom…all three shut. Cathy nodded, took the opportunity to wash her hands, and then returned to the office and allowed Miss Baldwin to show her out. Any second she was expecting Marsden to rush after he with her briefcase, which she had deliberately left under her chair, but he never did.

Perfect excuse to return to TechAir tomorrow. Late. And stay after hours…

**Chapter Six: The Fencing Salon**

The clash of blade upon blade filled the Tonetti Fencing Salon. This consisted of an extremely large, hardwood-floored room, with ten fencing pistes marked out on in tape - each one 2 meters wide and 14 meters long. Mirrors ran along the lengths of each of the walls - for it is important for a fencer to check his - or her - form, when practicing lunging drills and so on.

In one corner was a small weight room, and the entrances to the men's and women's locker rooms.

Several students were "bouting" - having practice matches to hone their skills.

On a piste at the far end of the room, Emma Peel was bouting with Tonetti himself.

Gradually, the other fencers stopped to watch, because what was going on there was remarkable. Tonetti was an Olympic-class fencer, and it was rapidly becoming clear to anyone who had never seen her before (for normally she took private lessons from Tonetti), that she was in the same class herself.

They were not fencing foil or epee, but rather sabre. This was unusual in itself, women didn't fence with sabre, normally, but Emma was giving Tonetti a run for his money.

The difference in the three disciplines are marked. Foil fencers may only "thrust" with their weapons, and a touch only counts on the upper torso. The "right of way" exists - whoever starts a fencing movement first, gets the touch, if both opponents are touched simultaneously. In epee, there is no right of way, and the target is the entire body, from toes to fingertips.

In sabre, the cutting edge as well as the point are used to score points. As a fencing master once explained:

"Like foil, sabre is subject to right of way rules, but there are some differences in the precise definition of what constitutes a correctly executed attack and parry. These differences, together with a much greater scoring surface (the whole of the blade, rather than the point alone), make sabre parries more difficult to execute effectively. As a result, sabre tactics rely much more heavily on footwork with blade contact being kept to a minimum."

The two white-clad opponents were charging up and down the piste unrelentingly, at a frenetic pace that would have left the average individual gasping for breath after five minutes, and the average fencer after ten. But they'd been keeping it up for a full thirty minute, and gave no sign of slowing down.

Oh, there'd be a pause, as they'd reset themselves after a touch, but then they were at it again, relentlessly. If anyone had been keeping count, Emma was only slightly behind the Italian on points.

Finally, after a little less than an hour, Emma called an end and ripped off her mask, gasping for breath. Tonetti did the same. Their audience clapped at the splendid display they'd just witnessed.

Emma shook Tonetti's hand. He held it a bit longer than necessary, staring searchingly into her eyes. "Cara mia…"

"I'm fine, Rodolfo," Emma said with a quick smile. "I just wanted a really good workout."

He grimaced, but released her hand. "We got that, anyway. I'm dead."

Emma walked into the locker room, stripped off her uniform, and stepped into the shower, soaking under the pelting hot spray. Well…she was mostly fine. She was still feeling a bit…fragile. Fragility encased in a white hot ball of rage which in turn was encased by her iron-clad self-discipline.

For many years she had thought Peter was dead. She'd gotten over his death, mourned him and moved on. Then he had returned to her…so suddenly. They'd had four blissful months together..and now he was dead again.

This time, though, he was definitely dead. There was that, at least. Last time, she'd spent several months, hoping against hope that he had somehow survived, would somehow returned….this time was slightly less cruel…there was no hope that he would ever return.

And if it had happened for no good reason.

The thing was…Peter was as good an engineer as he was a mechanic. He had looked at the plans for the Dart, and had seen no flaws.

Could it have been pilot error? If so she'd dragged Cathy back from the States for nothing…not that Cathy would begrudge that…

**Chapter Six: Interlude **

Emma arrived back at her flat to find a message waiting on her answer phone. It was from Cathy Gale.

"Emma, just thought I'd let you know that Peter hadn't originally been scheduled to fly the Dart on the day of his death. He was substituting for a test pilot named Rogers.

It seems open and above board, but nevertheless, an anomaly. I'm going to go talk to Rogers now.

Message ends."

Emma poured herself a glass of wine and sat on her divan. She knew Rogers…indeed, she had gotten to know both test pilots, in the four months Peter had worked for the company. They'd all played bridge a few times - Emma emerging the clear winner on each occasion.

She hadn't known this…she'd known the procedures, of course - the pilots learning first to fly the plane in the trainer, which mimicked it in every way possible, before actually going up in the air, and that this had been his first time flying the Dart, but she hadn't realized that it actually hadn't been planned in advance.

It was so frustrating, staying on the sidelines like this, with Cathy doing all the questioning. But she had no choice… for the moment.

Emma sipped her wine.

For the moment.

**Chapter Seven: Rogers**

"Would you like a drink?" asked Rogers.

"No, thank you," Cathy responded in her cool but friendly way.

"Hope you don't mind if I do," he said, and poured himself a whisky.

"Well," he said, sitting down next to her, "ask your questions."

"Tell me about flying the Dart. Is it complex to fly?"

"No, not at all…" he continued in specifics, and Cathy listened attentively, occasionally making a note.

"So Peter Peel's death.." she said eventually, at an appropriate point in the conversation.

Rogers shrugged. "I don't know what happened. He was a great pilot…but perhaps a moment's inattention…"

"Perry said…"

Rogers made a gesture of disgust. "Perry Robertson?" He made a noise of disgust as well.

Cathy gazed at him curiously.

"You don't like him?"

"Well…" Rogers grimaced. "I probably shouldn't have said that. As an aircraft engineer he's top-notch. I just don't like the way he treats his wife."

"Oh, you know his wife?"

Rogers went bright red. "I've… seen her on occasion."

Cathy tactfully passed on to other things.

**Chapter Eight: the Hand is Quicker than the Eye**

Cathy Gale turned into the frontage road that led to TechAir Industries. Barbed-wire fences stretched in either direction from the small hut where a guard stood watch over the entrance. No one could enter the grounds except through this frontage road.

The guard came out of his hut, carrying his clipboard. He made note of her license plate before approaching her.

"Hi," she said with a smile. "I was here yesterday. I foolishly left my briefcase in Mr. Marsden's office, and I've come back to get it."

"Yes, miss," he said. "Mr. Marsden phoned down to let you in when you arrived. I'll tell him you're on your way in."

"Thank you."

Cathy drove to the administration building, and parked as close to the front door as possible. The spaces right next to the building were of course reserved for the top-brass, but it was after six pm and there was no one left except Marsden and his secretary. They always worked late, as Marsden had told her yesterday.

Cathy got out of the car, and walked to the back. She stood by the boot for a few seconds, looking around casually. As expected, there was no one around. She reached down and knocked on the boot, the first part of "shave and a haircut,"

"Two bits" was knocked back at her.

Cathy trotted into the building, where she was met by the secretary, Miss Baldwin, and they walked quickly back towards Marsden's office.

"You know I really could have left your briefcase at the guard-hut," she was saying, as Cathy's keen ears heard what she was expecting, the slightest swish as the front door opened and closed.

Emma Peel had hidden in her boot, dressed in her patented emmapeelers, had let herself out through the special latch installed for just that purpose, and had now entered the building. She would stay in the loo until much later that night, when the coast was clear, and then emerge and investigate Marsden's filing cabinet.

"As long as I'm here," Cathy was saying to Marsden, "I wonder if I might not attend the test flight of the Dart tomorrow. You said it was taking place at noon?"

"Yes, noon tomorrow. Certainly, Mrs. Gale."

Cathy gripped her briefcase, flourished it, and left his office. She was escorted to the door by Miss Baldwin, where she said goodbye. Then she got into her car and drove out of the grounds.

Noon tomorrow. That would be a long time for Emma to wait for the car - and its boot - to return, but doubtless she would be doing something constructive during that period.

**Chapter Nine: the Denouement**

Emma Peel was no stranger to sneaking into buildings, nor to ensuring that she'd have things to do to pass the time while she waited for said building to empty.

In this case, she'd brought several magazines in a pack strapped to her back, and sat on the toilet seat - with only a slight moue of amusement - while she waited for eight o'clock.

At the appointed time, Emma parked the pack in the corner of this smallest room, and then headed for Marsden's office, moving surely as she'd memorized the floor plan Cathy had drawn for her.

It was the work of a few moments to unlock the outer door into Miss Baldwin's office, and then the inner door into Marsden's. Emma was pleased to see that they did lock their doors -- her own opinion of their security didn't bear mentioning. No watchmen in the builing, only the guard at the gate to ensure that anyone who came in, went out? Very bad.

She turned on the lights in Marsden's office, opened his filing cabinet, and went through it until she found what she needed - Perry Robertson's report on the causes behind the crash of the Dart.

She spent the next couple of hours reading through it thoroughly. When she'd turned the last page, she closed the report and sat, staring into space. She wished she'd dared take a drink out of Marsden's stock - all British businessmen had a drinks cabinet in their offices - but she dared not.

There was a lot to digest…but nothing…odd…had jumped out at her.

Emma left Marsden's office…she wanted to see what the Dart looked like…up close.

She left the building and padded towards the aircraft hangar, almost invisible in the specially chosen blue and purple colors that blended into the night, her crepe-soled shoes making no sound at all.

The aircraft hangar had two doors. Two vast doors that slid apart and from which the aircraft were rolled out onto the runway, and a small, normal sized door for people to go in and out.

Not expecting it to be unlocked, Emma tried the door. The knob twisted under her hand and the door opened.

The lights in the hangar were full on.

Emma stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind her.

In all the vastness of the hangar, the Dart actually seemed small.

It also seemed to have an intruder.

A man was walking around the craft, in an assessing manner. He was carrying something in one hand, though she couldn't see what it was.

Whatever it was, whoever he was, he had no business being there.

A little bit of that white-hot core of anger broke through Emma's calm. She began creeping along the side of the building, towards a set of work-benches. She didn't know if the man was armed or not, and if he had a gun, she wanted something throw able to be able to knock it out of his hand. After that, she had no fear that she could handle him.

Spanner in hand, she finally started circling closer to the intruder. He had moved a wheeled-ladder close to the nose and was beginning to climb it.

"Who are you," Emma called up at him, "and what are you doing here?"

He stopped; he stared down at her.

"I might ask you the same thing."

"Come on down, and we can each explain ourselves to the other."

He stood staring at her for the longest time, and then he said, "Very well."

Cathy Gale had told Emma all that had transpired the day before. Based on her knowledge of people, and of the way things just were, the truth came to her in a blinding flash.

She waited until the man had reached solid ground, and was facing her, before she said, "You're Perry Roberson, aren't you."

"Yes," he said, calmly.

"And Rogers the test pilot was having an affair with your wife."

"Yes."

"So you decided to kill him by sabotaging the Dart on the day he was supposed to fly it."

"Yes."

"Except he had to go north for some reason, and Peter Peel was tapped to make the flight instead."

"Yes. I'm sorry about that."

"You're sorry?"

"Yes. You're his wife, aren't you? Peter Peel's? I think I saw you once, at a reception."

"Yes, I'm Emma Peel. Thanks to you, I'm not his wife, I'm his widow."

"I didn't mean it to happen that way! No one was supposed to get hurt except that wife-stealing Rogers!"

"Let me get this straight," Emma said, her voice trembling with rage. "You destroy a plane worth millions of pounds, you're intending to destroy another one, quite possibly putting a company and its hundreds of employees out of work, and all because your wife cheated on you with another man? Just because of that?"

"I don't expect you to understand," Robertson said. "I did what I had to do. Now, I'm sorry, but obviously, I…"

"You're going to have to kill me, too?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you can do it, face to face with your victim?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, then." She assumed a karate stance. "Give it your best shot."

His face twisted with contempt at her pathetic belief that her karate would help her, Roberston stepped forward, reaching for her arm.

Like a snake, her arm darted forward and slapped his face - hard. She then retreated a couple of steps, fencing style.

Robertson swore and came at her again. She slapped his arm out of the way, sidestepped, and slapped his face again, harder.

Robertson roared like a bull and ran towards her, both arms extended in order to grab her. She pirouetted out of his way, and as he rushed past she hit him on the back of the neck with the spanner - carefully not a killing blow, but nevertheless sending him crashing to the concrete.

Robertson got up and swore, viciously. He hadn't learned his lesson - he rushed at her again, trusting in his brute strength to overpower her. Emma extended two fingers and speared him mercilessly in the eyes. He shrieked and staggered away, hands clutching his face.

Emma weighed the spanner in her hand. He was helpless now. A single, killing blow to the back of the head, crushing his skull.

For all the misery he'd caused her, for all the misery he'd fully intended to cause other people….

She took a deep breath. When she swung the spanner, it was not to kill, but to knock unconscious. Robertson fell over like a sack of potatoes and lay still, his breath coming in evenly.

Emma found a telephone and called Cathy Gale - who in turn would call Robert Marsden, and bring the police.

Peter was vindicated.

**Chapter Ten: Friends Forever**

Several months had passed. Robertson had been convicted in a court of law and sent to prison for the rest of his life. The names of Cathy Gale and Emma Peel were not mentioned in any newspaper accounts - Official Secrets Act. Steed had returned from his assignment and he and Emma had had dinner together. Steed had asked her if she'd like to return to the Department, and she'd said no. That part of her life was over.

But regular dinner dates were doable….in between his duels with diabolical masterminds…

Now she and Cathy Gale were having a final tea as well, in the departure lounge at Heathrow Airport - Cathy was jetting back to America to finish her work on the American Indians.

"If you ever need anything again, don't hesitate to call," Cathy said.

"And you, me," Emma replied.

They smiled at each other, knowing that they would always be…Avengerous.

Note to readers: My fiction is available in PDF format at I've created an announcement list to let people sign up to learn when I have written new stories. It's at Yahoogroups and is called Emma Peel Chronicles

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